'You must wait in the displaced-persons camp. I will get word to you about your sister.'
I nod my head.
'There are refugee committees both here and in England. I will find out about Margot.'
'Thank you.'
He smiles at me, but I know that he is unhappy. I know that he wishes I would open the door for him so that he might deliver his message in a more intimate manner. He wants to be my knight in shining armour. He wants to rescue me. And I suppose I am encouraging him a little in his quest. I see no harm in this.
I spend the afternoon sitting by myself. I have claimed a new berth, out in the open, in the full glare of the sun, close to the fence. I sit on a pile of discarded timber, squeezing myself into a crevice which holds me as though it were a comfortable chair. From this position, I can watch the sunlight moving like a cat along the palings of the fence. Since Mama left, I have grown accustomed to being solitary. But these days, even if I wished for company I would probably find myself alone. Tears begin to well in my eyes. These past years have hurt me in mind and body. I sit on this pile of wood. Close to the fence. On a warm spring afternoon.
Gerry stands and watches me while I drink my soup. I know that he will not approach until I have finished. I put down my still full bowl and walk towards Gerry. He begins.
'I wanted to talk to you.'
I do not express any surprise or concern. I know he wants to talk to me. This is why I have approached him. But I do not say this to him. I simply wait to hear what he has to say to me. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small bundle of notes.
'I want you to take this.'
I look at his money and begin to laugh. Money. I remember money. It is absurd to imagine that, for people out in the world, money has continued to be of value. I cannot control my laughter. Gerry does not understand why I am laughing. But he decides not to ask.
'There is a cinema in the town. You should go.'
I step back from him. How does he know about the movies?
'Please, take it. You have to get used to doing normal things again.'
For a brief second I hate Gerry. How dare he talk to me about normal? About what I have to do. I do not have to do anything that I do not want to do. He has no idea of what is normal and what is not normal. Just who, I wonder, does he imagine he is talking to? A child? I turn away from him, but I feel his hand on my arm.
'No. Eva. Take the money. Do what you want with it. Spend it on yourself, be selfish with it, I don't care.'
I look again at Gerry. Then at the money in his hand. He is trying to buy my affection. But if I am to find my sister, I need this man's help. I take the money. I speak as loudly as I can, but I know that it comes across as little more than a whisper.
'Thank you.'
Gerry smiles.
I have lain on my cot as long as possible. I can see through the window that the sun has almost reached the highest point in the sky. It is noon. The hut is empty. They continue to ignore me. I am too much trouble. I am naked. I decide that I will dress carefully. The clothes will, of course, be the same. But I will put them on as though they were the finest garments in the world. I will be new and I will look graceful. I let my head drop over the side of my cot. My fingers push into my shoe. I find the money neatly bundled up in its hiding place. It is not really a hiding place, more a place of safety. There is nobody here who will steal this money from me. There is nobody here. There is no reason to hide it. Sometimes I become confused.
A plume of smoke rises and twists through the cone of light. The sharpness and power of this cone of light seizes my attention. The picture is about America. A gangster picture with lots of shooting, and cars tearing after each other, and men shouting. In the gloom, I can see there are only a half-dozen or so other people in the cinema. But I watch the smoke. I watch the tall plume of smoke which rises slowly, twisting and turning through the cone of light.
The small park is surrounded by elm trees. I sit on a bench in the shade of these trees and stare at the fountain. There is no water. The park is deserted. Cloud-shadows slide past in a smooth parade. There is the kind of silence that convinces me that all around there are people. Watching and waiting to see what I will do. And then an elderly couple appear. They walk arm in arm towards me. They stare directly at me, then the woman looks from me and glances across at her husband. I know what he is thinking, but I do not care. He is free to think whatever he wishes. I have every right to sit in this park and enjoy the afternoon breeze. I am harming nobody, not even myself. As they pass by, she turns back towards me and smiles in my direction. But the man does not relax his severe expression.
I lie on my cot, but, as hard as I concentrate, I can hear no noise. This is the first night that I have heard neither shouting nor distant laughter. And it is a dark night. I lie suspended without sound, without sight, without distraction. Focusing on myself and my fears. Worried about everything. Simply everything. The tinned meat. A layer of lard on top, the meat underneath. Should I eat it? Can I eat it? And does the weight of the dead add itself to the earth? And if so, will the earth stop moving? Will it? Mama. Papa. There is not even a place where I might wear an uneven circle into the matted grass around your graves. And still I try to master these new gestures of life. How to use a toothbrush. How to fold toilet paper. How to say hello and goodbye. How to eat slowly. How to express joy. The rediscovery of smell. The smell of a tree. The smell of damp. The smell of rain. I worry about smell. A flower's perfume would knock me over. I worry about everything. The visit to the cinema has not managed to wash the anxieties from my mind. When I arrived back this evening, I looked for Gerry. I wanted to tell him that I did what he hoped I might do. I did not want to say, 'Thank you.' I just wanted to be able to let him know that I had done what he hoped I might do. But there was no sign of Gerry.
I look out of the window. The morning is overcast. The relative bleakness of the day causes my anxieties to resurface. I worry that there may be some return to the situation that existed before these men arrived. Camp life. The scream that deafens with its terror, the terror of deafening silence. The rigidity of motion, heavy stones weighing on everybody's hearts. Travelling daily beyond the frontiers of life with an obscene selfishness as one's sole companion. Forever hungry, no longer amazed at how quickly the body deteriorates, intrigued by the temporary peace with the skeletal, the unbearable pain of hunger, promising the shrinking body warm food, all night thinking of food. Killing only the lice, but not the eggs. Being bitten behind the ears and between the legs, in moist areas, little blood bumps that burst if you scratch. And always the violence of memory. Camp life. A return to the loneliness of this situation? There is no companionship in despair. But we are liberated and I choose to remain alone. (I want Margot. I want dear Bella.) I glance around at the empty cots, and I realize that I have created a prison. I have locked myself in this hut among the ghosts of strangers. Am I an offering? What is happening to me that I prefer to be in this hut? The humid atmosphere is foul, for the air has been trapped in this building for many days and many nights. But there are people who will talk to me. There are people who would be happy to talk to me.
I run to another of the men. He is climbing up and into the back of a truck, the engine of which is already running.
'Please. Where is Gerry?'
The man flicks his cigarette butt to the ground, and then continues to chew on his gum.
'Gone, love. Don't ask me where. Most of us are going.'
'Will you be back?'